


To Rest in the Warmest Places

by Sinope



Series: A Canticle of Transfigurations [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: (don't worry there's lots of sex too), Anal Sex, BDSM, Bondage, Developing Relationship, Dom/sub, Hair-pulling, M/M, Masochism, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Paddling, Resolved Sexual Tension, Safewords, Slow Burn, Sparring, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Voluntary Chastity, Wax Play, mention of canonical past non-con, pre-Cullen/Dorian (background), very minor Inquisitor/Bull
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 20:58:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3784120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sinope/pseuds/Sinope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Iron Bull watched Cullen from the beginning, but it took time for Cullen to let himself be seen.  After all, he'd become so good at denying what he wanted that he never learned how to take what he needed.</p><p> </p><p>
  <i>“Half the lasses and lads in Haven have spent weeks trying to figure out how to make you blush.  I just happen to be better than them at finding and exploiting the cracks in people’s armor.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“That’s rather ironic, given how little of it you actually wear.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Are you kidding?  That’s one of my best strategies.  When people think that they can see everything about you already, they don’t worry so much about protecting their own weak spots.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. steel my heart

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prequel to ["Judge Me Whole,"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3474146) but it can be read entirely independently.

_O Maker, hear my cry:_  
_Guide me through the blackest nights_  
_Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked_  
_Make me to rest in the warmest places._  
— Canticle of Transfigurations 12:1

 

Could someone be “lurking” while standing still in broad daylight? The answer was clearly yes, Cullen decided, because the Iron Bull was _clearly_ lurking. The Qunari and his mercenary band had only arrived at Haven a few days ago, and Cullen hadn’t had a chance to speak with him much, beyond the formal meet-and-greet. Given the rapidly diminishing free space at Haven, it had made sense for the Chargers to set up camp near the soldiers’ tents, and thus with a good view of Cullen’s training area.

But still. The Iron Bull _lurked_ , and he always seemed to be watching Cullen. Every time that Cullen glanced in his direction, he had the feeling that Bull had only just turned away; every time that he paused his activities to peer suspiciously, Bull looked up and gave him a wink, as if Cullen had been the one staring. It was utterly aggravating.

Finally, after Cullen bruised his ribs because he was too distracted to avoid a new recruit’s sword swipe, he girded his loins to visit the Qunari. He’d waited for a quiet moment; Bull had returned from training his own men for the afternoon, and his young Tevinter lieutenant was off on some errand. So Cullen asked Cassandra to keep an eye on the soldiers’ training for a few minutes, and he marched over to Bull’s tent.

“Commander,” Bull greeted him in a perfectly respectful voice. “I was wondering when you’d stop by.”

Caught off guard by the politeness, Cullen stammered and suppressed his original frustration. “It’s been a bit hectic here lately, as you’ve probably noticed. But you’ll be fighting alongside my men, and I would like to be able to work well together.”

Bull nodded. “Easiest way to do that is to make sure we’re on the same page before each fight. My men aren’t really the type to march in straight lines, but if you tell me what you need them to do, they’ll get it done.”

“I can work with that,” Cullen mused aloud. Mercenaries were always a wild card, but Bull seemed confident that he could keep them under control. “I’d still prefer that we do some drills together, though.”

“Sure thing. Just let me know when, so I can stock some extra ale that night to reward my boys for the boring parts.” Bull flashed him a smile that softened his words but didn’t negate them, and Cullen felt the same irritation creeping back.

“There are actual demons out there, you know. It doesn’t hurt to be prepared.”

Bull voice stayed level. “We will be.” He paused. “By the way, you’re teaching your men a good defensive angle for their shields, straight from the Templar textbook. But some of them need reminding that shields can be an offensive weapon too, and that takes a different stance.”

“I’m well aware of that,” Cullen snapped, because he _was_ , but there were too many men of too many skill levels for the kind of thorough training that he preferred. Then he closed his eyes, inhaled, and reminded himself that the comment had been intended as a contribution. Perhaps stopping the lyrium had affected his mood more than he’d realized. “I’ll be sure to train them in both techniques. If you’ve got the time, having another experienced trainer on the field would help greatly.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Bull said; there was an ease to his acquiescence that made Cullen wonder whether that had been his goal all along. “Never gonna turn down a chance to bruise up pretty soldiers for a good cause.”

“Well … good.” Nothing about Bull’s comments was inappropriate, but Cullen still felt the same fluster that flirtatious barmaids brought out in him — like he should have been able to respond wittily, but hadn’t the slightest idea of where to begin. “We can start with tomorrow’s drills, right after the lunch hour.”

“Works for me,” Bull nodded. “Be seeing you.”

Cullen walked away, still feeling off kilter, and he was halfway back to his men before he realized that he’d never actually asked Bull about his habit of watching him.

 

…

 

One of Cullen’s countless reminders that Leliana knew her business was the fact that her top priority for Haven — second only to necessities like food and blankets — was the establishment of a tavern. With a convenient spot to acquire ale at cheap prices, soldiers were less likely to terrorize nearby farmsteads, and the morale improvements were undeniable. Rare was the evening when drinking songs didn’t echo out of the tavern’s thin wooden walls, buoyed by cheers and the occasional high giggles.

Cullen preferred to drink alone. Intoxication turned his mind melancholy and lowered his resistance to the icy song of lyrium, and his drunken dreams tended to roam farther and darker than he liked. But tonight, the whole settlement was celebrating the return to order in the Hinterlands, and Cassandra had shoved a mug of ale into his hand. “You need to relax. Finish this,” she said, “or I’ll get the Herald to challenge you to a drinking contest.” Trevelyan had both an indomitable will and a disturbingly high alcohol tolerance; the threat was not an idle one.

Well, if he was to drink, at least he would not burden others with his dour mood. Cullen wandered the edge of Haven, staying within visual range in case of an emergency, but avoiding the occasional groups of loud laughter and louder boasting. He passed a few couples who’d sought solitude for a different kind of pleasure, and he could hardly blame them; with the end of the world painted across the sky, who could fault someone for finding solace in a willing partner? Still, the sight hardly quieted his brooding mind as he nursed his drink.

At last Cullen settled into a dark spot with his back to a mossy boulder. The ale in his mug was a familiar brew — liberated from a camp of recalcitrant Templars, no doubt — and it warmed his throat and flushed his cheeks with each bitter sip.

“You’d better hurry up, or it’ll freeze before you finish drinking it,” a deep voice rumbled from behind him. Cullen started enough that he nearly smacked his head on the boulder. He’d half unsheathed his sword before he turned and saw the Iron Bull watching him with amusement.

“Maker’s breath, how did someone like you sneak up on me?” The words were out of his mouth before he realized how offensive they must sound.

“Someone like me, eh?” Thankfully, the question was followed with a bark of laughter and not a glare. “Which part made you expect me to be noisy — the training as a spy, the years of creeping up on enemies outdoors, or the layers of noisy armor that I wear around?” Bull looked pointedly down at his canvas breeches and bare chest.

“I — that is,” Cullen stumbled, still staring at Bull’s chest, which was indeed very bare and very broad. He jerked his gaze away, cursing the tipsy weakness of his willpower. “Do you delight in discomfiting me? Because you’re very good at it.”

“Please,” Bull laughed, seating himself beside Cullen. “Half the lasses and lads in Haven have spent weeks trying to figure out how to make you blush. I just happen to be better than them at finding and exploiting the cracks in people’s armor.”

“That’s rather ironic, given how little of it you actually wear.” Cullen gestured again to his chest, this time trying not to let his eyes linger.

“Are you kidding? That’s one of my best strategies. When people think that they can see everything about you already, they don’t worry so much about protecting their own weak spots.”

“By that logic, you’d have even more success if you fought stark naked.”

Bull grinned approvingly. “Yeah, but then I’d just be too distracting to the rest of my team. Wouldn’t be fair to them.”

Cullen sighed, amused despite himself. “You’re impossible.” Impossible to deal with, but also — if he was being honest with himself — impossible to dislike.

“And you’re smiling, which is a definite improvement on brooding.” Bull raised his mug to clink cheerfully against Cullen’s. “Look, Commander, the Inquisition’s made some great steps in these past weeks, and you don’t seem like the kind of man who objects to a well-earned celebration. Something’s weighing on you, and I’d rather work it out now than have it hit me when we’re watching each other’s backs against ghouls.”

For a brief moment, Cullen almost yielded. Only Cassandra knew of his cravings for lyrium, and the memory-dreams that plagued him were his burden alone to bear. But Bull’s casual acceptance felt as safe as a Chantry confessional, and perhaps a trouble shared would be a trouble lessened.

 _Ben-Hassrath_ , Cullen told himself forcefully. Of course the Iron Bull had a way of putting people at ease for interrogation: it was literally his job. Leliana had vouched for the Chargers’ reputation, true; they had never turned against an employer. That didn’t mean that any secrets Cullen told him would be kept remotely private.

“I have it under control,” he said instead. “Your concern is appreciated, but unnecessary.”

“Riiight,” Bull drawled, but didn’t push further. “Well, let me know if you ever want a listening ear. Or just if you want some … distraction. Sometimes the fastest way to quiet the mind is to tire the body; it’s harder to worry when you’re breathless and exhausted.”

Cullen flushed; no wonder the Iron Bull had garnered his reputation. “I manage just fine, thank you.”

Bull’s laughter was loud and hearty. “Settle down, Commander; I meant a practice fight. Good for letting off steam and teaching the recruits. Though if you are interested in other forms of _swordplay_ , you know where to find me.” He winked and rose up again, stretching his legs with a couple of audible pops. “Stay warm up here.”

“You too.” Cullen raised his mug in farewell, then watched the Qunari climb deftly back down to the main camp. His cheeks still burned with embarrassment at his assumption, but he felt undeniably less lonely than before.

 

…

 

As circumstances had it, Bull and his Chargers were called away the next morning to do clean-up in the Hinterlands, and the promised “distraction” had to be put on hold for a couple of weeks. With Trevelyan traveling along to meet a Grand Enchanter at Redcliffe, Haven felt almost dormant, and Cullen tried to balance training the troops with giving them the opportunity to rest and heal.

The delay proved to be a mixed blessing. On the one hand, Cullen was grateful for the chance to put his thoughts in order. He’d made assumptions about the Iron Bull, unfair ones; the Qunari was neither a lumbering druffalo nor an inveterate rake. Nor was he one of the terrifyingly stoic horned drones that Cullen had encountered in Kirkwall. He resolved to take Bull more at his word; he seemed genuinely interested in improving the Inquisition’s forces, and Maker knew that they needed any help they could get.

On the other hand, whether or not Bull had intended to flirt with him (of which Cullen was still unsure), the possibility had been firmly planted in Cullen’s head. Two weeks with little to distract him gave that seed ample opportunity to flourish and grow.

In the past, when he thought of it — which was as infrequently as possible — Cullen had always thought that his tastes were a simple result of his upbringing. Growing up among the Templars, idolizing older men with firm biceps and firmer wills, the occasional fantasy of subjecting himself to that strength was natural. It didn’t have to interfere with the plan to court a maiden someday.

And the nights Cullen spent bringing himself off with his hand, imagining a broad grey chest pressing him down into his bedroll and a gravelly voice whispering _Not yet_ in implacable command — they didn’t have to interfere with his plans to do his duty as the Inquisition’s Commander to train the best troops he could manage.

 

…

 

Then the Chargers returned, wagons of battle spoils trailing in their wake. (Food, blankets, and weaponry tended to be shared generously with the Inquisition; barrels of ale, on the other hand, showed a remarkable tendency to vanish before reaching the quartermaster.) The next morning, Bull and his lieutenant once again watched the troops from their tents; every so often, Bull would lean over to make a comment, and the younger man would laugh.

During the soldiers’ lunch break, Cullen made his way over to the pair. “I hear you had a successful trip.”

“You can thank your boss for that,” Bull said. “With all the rifts cleared up and the Inquisition troops stationed everywhere, hunting down a few bandits was a piece of cake. Almost felt more like a vacation than an assignment.”

His lieutenant nodded. “At least it’s a bit warmer there. How you Southerners can call this climate habitable is beyond me.”

Bull grinned and clapped him on the back. “Krem’s a tropical flower, but he fights even harder when he’s pissed off about the cold, so it works out all right.”

“Krem, is it? I don’t think we’ve officially met.” Cullen bowed his head politely in greeting. “Cullen Rutherford.”

“Oh, I know who you are,” the man said, a hidden amusement behind his words that Cullen didn’t try to understand. “Cremisius Aclassi. It’s a pleasure.”

“So, Commander,” Bull said, after the two had shaken hands. “You here to take me up on my offer?”

Cullen sent up a silent prayer to Andraste that the bright sunshine would conceal his blush. “At your convenience, yes. I think my men would appreciate the opportunity to watch two experienced combatants, each coming from distinct training.”

“Happy to help.” Bull rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, and stepped forward. “We using play swords or the real deal?”

Cullen eyed his hefty two-handed ax with some trepidation. Practice bouts with sharp weapons always looked impressive, but between two combatants who’d never learned each other’s rhythms — “Let’s begin with the blunt blades. I’d rather keep all my appendages intact.”

“Don’t worry, Commander; I won’t do anything to any of your appendages that you don’t want me to do.” Cullen thought he saw Aclassi roll his eyes, but he was too busy fighting his own blush to be sure. “But toy swords it is. Lead the way.”

The two armed themselves and faced off in the center of the soldiers’ camp. Around them, the men formed a wide circle of an audience, still finishing up their hunks of bread and cheese. As Cullen assumed a battle stance and watched Bull do the same, the Qunari towering over him, he felt a sudden thrill of doubt. He’d been trained by the best and battle-hardened, but he hadn’t had his skills honed by years of daily fighting for his life. Well, too late to worry about that.

Their rhythm took a few moments to settle in. The two circled each other, and Cullen made a couple of quick swings at Bull, less out of the expectation to hit him than a desire to learn his responses. Then he met Bull’s gaze, and Bull gave him the slightest nod, and the fight was on.

Now, Cullen had always been an awful dancer. He’d never had much experience to begin with, and when he tried, he felt like he either ended up yanking around his partner or losing synch with her altogether. But if dancing had ever felt like _this_ , he was certain he would have loved it.

At first, Cullen focused on success: dodge one stroke, riposte to an unguarded side, swing up to meet the countering blow. After a few exchanges, though, he realized that he had vastly less control than he’d thought. Bull was choreographing both their moves: giving Cullen just enough cues to predict his strikes, then revealing apparent weaknesses to invite a counterattack. _He’s toying with me_ , he thought, and swung back all the more fiercely at the humiliation of it.

Feinting right, he dug his toe into the dry ground before slashing low from the left, using the billowing cloud of dust to hide his footwork in a move he’d learned on the streets of Kirkwall. The satisfying whoosh as his sword passed a hairsbreadth from Bull’s arm was almost enough reward, but then Bull laughed appreciatively, as if he’d ordered Cullen to perform the feat.

It felt like fighting a training dummy made of granite. No matter how much Cullen honed his senses, how hard he swung, or how many tricks he dredged from his arsenal, Bull would always evade, absorb, or counter the move. Slowly, as they continued to circle each other and Cullen began to hear himself panting with exhaustion, his anger faded into a fierce focus, and abruptly he found himself laughing too. Bull demanded every inch of his abilities for their dance, but Cullen felt a strange freedom in being able to fight as hard as he pleased and yet know that he would neither achieve victory nor receive injury.

At last, when his muscles shook with the effort to maintain their stance, Cullen struck home, landing directly on the broad belt that protected Bull’s stomach. He had an uncomfortable feeling that Bull had allowed the victory, but it would look real enough to the onlookers. When they broke apart and lowered their swords, the entire audience burst into loud applause.

“Well fought, Commander,” Bull said. Cullen could hear his breath heaving too; that was a small comfort, at least, that at least Cullen presented some sort of challenge. “I’ll have to ask you for a rematch sometime.”

Adrenaline and delight buzzed through Cullen’s exhausted limbs. “You will,” he agreed. Then he turned to the soldiers who were whispering among themselves. “So. Who can tell me the name of that last move, and give an example of when it’s an appropriate action?”

As he returned to the tasks at hand, he tried to focus on the untrained soldiers around him. Otherwise, he’d just keep revisiting how blighted good it had felt to give every inch of himself to an opponent as unyielding as onyx and as gentle as a kiss.


	2. the temptations of the wicked

The dreams used to always start the same. He wandered the halls of Kinloch Hold late at night, its halls shadowed and still. Then, passing an open door, he glanced inside, and he saw Her.

Her eyes always looked innocent. She glanced up and, seeing him, broke into a brilliant smile of recognition. “Cullen! Up late again?”

“Someone’s got to keep everyone safe after dark,” he would respond, and the words might change from dream to dream, but his delight at her attention never did.

Then her smile would turn coy — still innocent, yes, but the innocence of a prodigy who hadn’t yet learned to take her own power for granted. “I could use someone strong to keep me safe after dark. You never know what might be hiding under the bed.”

Sometimes a pang of foreboding would strike him when he stepped into the room, but in the dreams, he shrugged it off in the thrill of her promises. “I suppose I could be more thorough in my investigation,” he would say, and her lips would meet his for a kiss.

Perhaps if the dreams ended there, they might be easier to bear, but they never did. The two of them would kiss and kiss, bodies pressed together as if to become one flesh. Her fingers were the first on the clasps of his clothing, but he was the one to guide her down onto the bed, to kiss her breasts with a reverence that would make Andraste proud. They coupled by candlelight, the act itself a blissful haze, until Cullen felt breathless with desire.

“Tell me you want me,” she would whisper, and he would murmur _yes, yes_ into her earth-brown skin. “Tell me you’re mine,” she would beg, and he always did.

Three times she asked, and on the third assent, she laughed, her voice still sensual but icy-hard. “You give yourself away so easily, foolish man.” His eyes blinked open, and her skin had turned an inhuman violet, cold to the touch. He would struggle to escape, but her arms would be strong and relentless, and they would drag him back down onto the bed, and —

He tried not to remember the ends of those dreams. He tried.

These days, though, the dreams had begun to change. Instead of the Circle Tower, he walked the dirt pathways of Haven. The memory of Amell’s face had begun to fade over the years, blurring into an indistinct human woman, but now those features sharpened into the form of Trevelyan.

The first morning after one of those new dreams, his cheeks burned with shame, and he felt certain that everyone would read his secret on his face. But though Leliana cast him a curious glance or two, no one confronted him. No one denounced him, even when the dream repeated itself again and again.

At Kinloch Hold, Cullen had been a young man, dizzy with infatuation; he had thought he loved Amell, yes, but he had hardly known anything of her. This time, he did not permit himself to call his feelings love. He appreciated the Herald’s fair face and iron will, but that signified nothing.

And if he flinched when her smile turned coy, no one had to know the cause.

 

…

 

The Herald herself returned a few days after the Chargers, delayed on her journey by packs of bandits-who-weren’t-actually-bandits (Leliana had nodded knowingly, but Cullen had mostly focused on the part where the threat had been eliminated). She then spoke of her strange encounters with the mages in Redcliffe, and Cullen valiantly refrained from reiterating the point that was surely obvious to everyone in the room: not only were the mages unwilling to help, but magic itself seemed to have cemented their alliance against the Inquisitor. The solution to the Rift’s magic surely could not be more magic.

Unfortunately, Trevelyan seemed to disagree. She lavishly praised the Tevinter mage who’d fought demons with her, to the point that Cullen wondered whether she’d developed a bit of an infatuation, and she spoke passionately of the need to help him fight his time-twisting rival.

At last, he could take it no more. “Lady Trevelyan, must I remind you that we know nothing of this man? The one thing we _do_ know is that he is a former student of our enemy! The Templars are a known factor, your encounter at Val Royeaux notwithstanding, and with the support of the Right and Left Hands of the Divine, gaining their support should be straightforward. We need not leap into the mire of Tevinter mage politics.”

“I think your bias may be showing,” Leliana said dryly. “The question is not which route is easiest, but which will be most effective against the Rift. On that subject, our greatest expert on the Rift has already given his opinion.”

“An opinion which is clearly unbiased, coming from a mage himself,” Cullen retorted.

“Enough.” Trevelyan thumped her hands down onto the War Table, startling the others to silence. “Commander, a word in private?”

“Of — of course.” He cursed his stutter, banishing away memories of dreams where that same voice had said those same words, and followed her into a small side chamber.

When Trevelyan turned on him, her expression radiated determination. “I’ll be blunt with you.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Good. Because I would like to get the mages at Redcliffe as our allies, and I believe Leliana and Josephine will support me. But you’re the leader of our military forces, and I won’t undermine you by recruiting a force of mages if you truly can’t work with them. I admit that I don’t know much about your past, or the bias that Leliana mentioned — and I’d like to fix that, but now isn’t the time. I just need you to tell me if you can do this.”

Despite himself, Cullen couldn’t help falling a little bit in love. He closed his eyes, sighed, and nodded. “Yes. I serve at the Inquisition’s pleasure, and I will continue to serve to the best of my ability, whatever befalls us. I’m aware that my past may color my judgment, but I have been striving to keep it from influencing my behavior.”

“I know you have. Thank you for that.” Trevelyan clapped him on the arm and turned to head back.

As was and would always be his lot in life, Cullen thought grimly, he followed.

Back at the War Table, they had only begun to plan the logistics of infiltrating Redcliffe when the door slammed open and a man strode in, decked in glittering leathers and a smugly waxed mustache. Trevelyan greeted him with a dazzling smile that confirmed all of Cullen’s suspicions, and the fact that a _Tevinter mage had just strode into their planning chamber_ seemed to bother nobody but himself. Of course.

Of course, everyone was terribly grateful for the aid of this “scion of House Pavus,” and it did nothing to reassure Cullen’s fears when the mage’s suggestions were remarkably reasonable.

Of course, all the women in the room seemed to be dazzled by his sly smile and self-flattery and impractically exposed tawny skin.

Of course, the magister bestowed a teasing wink upon Cullen when they ended their planning for the night, as if he knew exactly how far he’d stretched Cullen’s patience.

Of course.

 

…

 

The sun had long since set, and the campfires scattered through Haven did little to illuminate Cullen’s path as he descended to his tent by the training field. Though he would not be accompanying Trevelyan and her pet Tevinter to Redcliffe, he would need to rise early to outfit and instruct her guards. Rest would have been wise, but Cullen’s blood pulsed with adrenaline and impotent anger, and sleep seemed an unlikely possibility. Instead, he seized a sword from their supplies and began to work through his fighting forms in the quiet field, modulating his breathing to echo the sweep of his blade and the tread of his feet. From past experience, Cullen knew the exercises wouldn’t put him to sleep, but at least he’d repurpose the time to good use.

The crunch of a footstep on frozen straw broke his meditative state, and he whirled around, blade pointed at his visitor. The Iron Bull raised his hands peaceably, looking amused. “Not here to fight you, don’t worry.”

Cullen’s breath puffed gray in the dim light, cold still harsh on his lungs when he breathed deep. “Maybe I _want_ to fight.”

“Okay, I can do that too,” Bull said. “But you might want to put down the sword and head somewhere else, if you don’t want to wake your men.”

“Fine,” Cullen snapped. Sparring with Bull meant that he could hit as hard as he wanted, and he’d always been better with deeds than with words. Besides, Haven might soon be overrun with mages, and peaceful nights like this would certainly disappear then.

Without further words, he set down the training sword and followed Bull away from the soldiers’ area, stopping in a secluded patch of clear ground where the path widened for a bit. Bull turned to face Cullen, and his teeth glinted in the faint moonlight. “Do your worst.”

Cullen’s first punch was clumsy with emotion, easy to dodge, but it thudded straight into the meat of Bull’s bare chest. The Qunari hardly twitched with the impact. “Good. Another.”

Cullen exhaled sharply in annoyance. “I’m not just going to stand here and hit you while you don’t fight back.”

“Whatever you say, Commander.” Bull aimed a punch at Cullen’s shoulder, easy enough for Cullen to dodge and swing back at Bull’s kidneys — a direct hit that elicited a satisfying grunt of pain, but didn’t lessen Bull’s amusement. “Is that your best?”

“Maker take you,” Cullen growled, and this time he launched himself at the Qunari. He knew a few tricks to take down a larger opponent — he’d had to teach them to some of the female recruits in particular — and he seized Bull in a grapple, twisting his arm to send him off-balance. Bull followed the movement but turned it into an almost graceful dive that yanked Cullen down with him, and then they were on the ice-hard dirt, wrestling each other for control.

Cullen tumbled and rolled with Bull, elbowing a pressure point in his bicep to loosen Bull’s grip and then punching him squarely in the face. “Better,” Bull grunted, then used his thighs to flip Cullen back over. Cullen feinted, wriggled free, and launched himself at Bull while he was still pushing himself up from the ground, shifting his weight to land them on Bull’s back while he tried to pin down those massive arms. Sweat had begun to trickle down Cullen’s face, despite the cold, and he glanced around the clearing, wondering if it would violate their unspoken rules to grab a nearby branch or stone.

Before Cullen could solidify his grip, though, Bull broke free and yanked Cullen back down by his hair. Again they rolled together, but this time, when Cullen gathered his bearings, he was solidly pinned down on his back — legs immobilized by Bull’s body weight, wrists both grasped in one hand, with Bull’s other hand wrapped around his throat just hard enough to threaten. Cullen’s scalp still ached with a diffuse pain that churned uncomfortably in his gut, and no matter which direction he tried to twist, Bull’s grip and sheer bulk refused to yield.

With a half-sob, Cullen dropped his head down onto the ground. Bull’s face hovered above him, closer than Cullen had realized, and the weight of his palm on Cullen’s throat lessened infinitesimally. Cullen was panting for air, but after a few breaths, he realized that the sensations tying his stomach in knots weren’t all unpleasant, and that his codpiece was the only thing protecting him from an extremely awkward conversation. “I yield,” he whispered, and let his muscles fall limp. Even out here, far from the War Table’s scheming, all he could do was embarrass himself.

“There’s no shame in surrender,” Bull said, and Cullen made a bitter laugh his only response. Bull paused, his eye taking in Cullen far too knowingly, then spoke again. “ _Shok ebasit hissra. Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Maraas shokra._ The Qun tells us that ‘all struggle is an illusion.’ You can splash at the waves in the ocean, but the sea is still gonna stay there. Victory comes when we stop splashing and let the sea take us where it needs us to be.”

“I didn’t realize that you were still religious.” The strange Qunlat words should have distracted from the desire itching at Cullen’s veins, but if anything, their calm intonation dragged him deeper. Bull’s weight felt less like a threat than a protective blanket around Cullen; his face still waited mere inches from Cullen’s own.

“The Qun isn’t a religion, the way you Southerners think of them. It’s just a description of the world as it is — like an atlas or a medical textbook, but concerned with the soul. It doesn’t tell us who to worship, or why someone created the world, or whether the Maker cares who we fuck.”

 _Fuck_. The word punctuated Bull’s speech perfectly, all sharp plosive and illicit promise. Cullen shuddered and shifted his hips without conscious thought, certain that Bull was aware of his inappropriate reaction. But thank the Maker, even if he knew, his shadowed gaze never faltered. Cullen drew a deep breath. “I think you won this match.”

“That depends. Are we finished here?” Bull’s voice was neutral, his grip unchanging, but Cullen still heard the world of possibility in his question.

Pursuing this further would certainly not be wise. Cullen could hardly criticize his soldiers for couplings to release stress, but as their leader, he had a higher standard to follow, a focus more single-minded. The last thing that Haven needed was a commander distracted by his own desires.

He’d been silent for a long while, Cullen realized, and Bull still kept his same distance. “Tell me what you want,” Bull prompted.

_”Tell me you want me,” the demon prompted._

The memory made Cullen shudder and recoil, still aroused but hating himself for it. “I can’t,” he said at last. “I can’t.”

“Okay,” Bull said calmly. He picked himself up, offering a hand to Cullen as he rose. “Then I should probably go. Heard there were Tevinter magisters to fight, so I’m gonna see if I can tag along with the Herald tomorrow morning.” Still holding Cullen’s hand, he took one step closer and spoke in a quieter tone. “Offer’s always open, though. You ever want to let go of some of that tension, you let me know.”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” Cullen knew the hollowness of his claim even as he said it, but at least Bull didn’t bother to argue. He felt suddenly weary as the adrenaline of the fight sapped out of him, and when he trudged back to his single tent, he was certain that he’d be able to sleep.

 

…

 

Less than two weeks passed. When Trevelyan returned, she did so at the head of a caravan of apostate mages, bearing heavy shadows below her eyes. After her story of time travel and poisonous red lyrium, Cullen could understand the weariness. (The other advisors seemed curious about the fates of their future selves, but Cullen had no desire to ask about himself. After all, the prospect of his being captured and tortured by demons and mages was no hypothetical. He knew he would endure; he did not wish to contemplate what he would become.)

A more pressing issue was the question of logistics. A few mages had already joined the Inquisition’s forces, but Trevelyan’s defeat of the Tevinter magister widened that trickle to a flood, and most of his men were unaccustomed to fighting beside mages, at best. (At worst, they had watched these same rebel mages devastate their homes and crops, now to be welcomed as saviors in Haven.) Cullen’s own feelings could be set aside; the task of creating a united military force could not.

He found himself welcoming the Iron Bull’s aid even more than before, as the Qunari had firsthand experience with integrating a mage into a force of non-magical soldiers. Maker be praised, Bull never brought up that embarrassing evening before he’d left for Redcliffe, and Cullen found himself almost able to forget the night’s encounter.

If Cullen needed any proof that Bull had moved on, he found it one morning, mere days after their return. He’d knocked on the Inquisitor’s door with a report on gaps in Haven’s fortifications, opening it when he heard movement but no response, and been greeted by … well, by rather more view of Bull’s endowment than he had anticipated. The billowy pantaloons suddenly made sense, Cullen realized, and stifled an inappropriate laugh, averting his eyes instinctively.

“Cullen! How’s it going?” Bull asked, utterly nonchalant. Cullen was fairly certain that his cheeks would literally ignite.

Before he could think of a response, though, Josephine joined him in the doorway, followed in short order by Cassandra, and the scene escalated from intense awkwardness to the absurdity of an Orlesian farce.

“I apologize for interrupting what I assume was a momentary diversion,” Cassandra finally said, scorn dripping from her voice, as if Bull were nothing but an impressively endowed molly.

“Nothing wrong with having a bit of fun,” Cullen defended automatically. He chose to ignore the brief incredulous look that Bull gave him for his hypocrisy.

“Who wouldn’t be a little curious?” Josephine agreed.

The Herald explained that she was “blowing off some steam,” and after the encounter at Redcliffe, Cullen really couldn’t blame her. So he backed up, still scarlet-cheeked and apologetic, and walked away.

He’d intended to walk back to the training field to set up the day’s exercises, but when he reached the empty square, his feet took him onward. He strode briskly and barely noted the soldiers scattering from his path. At last he found himself in a clearing by himself; the only sounds he could hear were birdsong, the crunch of his feet on snow, and the panting of his own breath. Everything ached.

Self-reflection had never been pleasant for Cullen, but he submitted to it. Like bathing in an icy stream, it was disagreeable, but ultimately necessary. So he examined his thoughts in the chill morning air, tracing the pain through touchstones and careful tugging, until it reached a wellspring that felt true.

He did not resent Trevelyan her pleasure, he concluded. He resented that he would not allow himself the same solace.

 

…

 

The next several days passed restlessly. After Solas had informed Trevelyan that he would need substantial time to train and calibrate the mages’ powers, she had used the opportunity to hunt down some missing Inquisition soldiers in the gray marshes south of the Hinterlands. Beyond maintaining a normal training regime for himself and his men, Cullen had little to distract him from the lyrium pangs and nightmares that seemed to wax stronger each day.

He tried not to dwell on the thought that even the diversion of duty might soon be unavailable to him, once the Breach was closed. None of them knew what might follow; none knew the magnitude of the enemy who had created the Breach to begin with. The one thing they did know was that Trevelyan had seen demons run rampant in her vision of the future, and the act of sealing the Breach might well be the event that drew them from the Fade. Until that danger was past, Cullen kept drilling his men, letting the more experienced train the less. His sparring matches with the Iron Bull had become popular among the men, so Cullen invited him back a few more times. (Thank Andraste, none of their fights had the simmering tension of that night alone in the woods.)

Once, he persuaded Cassandra to take Bull on, and then Cullen could see how much the warrior had been holding back against him. The two of them fought like gods incarnate; each strike and parry was exquisite in its precision, with Cassandra’s techniques and quick grace an easy match for Bull’s greater strength. Even when sweat flowed freely over their dusty faces, neither seemed close to defeat. “Enough,” Cullen finally cried, stepping into the ring, and they relaxed their guard, panting for breath.

Suddenly, Bull tipped back his head and began to laugh heartily. Cassandra blinked in surprise, but a moment later, she cracked a smile and began to laugh too, shaking her head in disbelief. “I find myself grateful that we are on the same side,” she said at last.

“Can’t disagree with that,” Bull said. “But you know, if you ever want a friendly rematch, you know where to find me.” He leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “In or out of armor, if you know what I mean.”

Cassandra made a disgusted noise. Cullen was inclined to agree.


	3. guide me through the blackest nights

In the end, the closing of the Rift went as smoothly as if Andraste herself had breathed upon the Inquisition’s mages. Trevelyan channeled the power of two hundred mages, and the sky sealed itself back together like a wound beneath a healer’s hands. Simple.

When the celebrations began that night, Cullen half expected to hear “I told you so” from the Inquisition’s other advisors, but they made no mention of his support for a Templar solution. The mountainside was ablaze with soldiers’ bonfires and showy fountains of mage-flame, and even Leliana had drunk enough ale to put a bright flush in her cheeks. Cullen had to refuse several times before Josephine stopped demanding a dance.

As for himself, Cullen drank occasionally from his cup of Free Marcher mead and watched flames crackle. The moment felt anticlimactic; no battle had been necessary, no demons manifested. As the mead sank into his veins and emboldened his nerves, he began to consider letting himself go for the night, allowing the lust for battle to crystallize into a different sort of lust altogether. Bedding one of his soldiers would be inappropriate, but perhaps a willing servant or villager, or even —

If he had not been caught up in his own desires just then, Cullen would tell himself later, he might have noticed the oncoming army before their footsteps echoed against Haven’s walls. He cursed his distraction, and he fumbled for his sword, and any space for contemplation vanished in the demands of the moment.

 

…

 

_“This is not survivable now. The only choice left is how spitefully we end this.”_

_“Well, that’s not acceptable. I didn’t join your Inquisition only to have you drop rocks on my head.”_

_“Should we submit? Let him kill us?”_

_“Dying is typically a last resort, not first! For a templar, you think like a blood mage!”_

_Dorian wasn’t wrong. He wasn’t wrong._

 

…

 

The next twenty-four hours felt like twenty years. After the dust and ash and snow settled — 

— after Cullen cradled Trevelyan’s body in his arms and carried her to camp, marveling at the lightness of the limbs that had faced down an archdemon —

— after the entire camp had joined in a hymn and knelt to Trevelyan, and Cullen had sung along, knowing only that he needed nothing more desperately than hope — 

— after Trevelyan had found a new light in her eyes and a direction to seek refuge for those few who remained — 

— after Cullen had seen to the warmth of the living, the wounds of the injured, and the interment of the dead — 

— after all that remained of the Inquisition had drifted into uneasy rest, scant hours before dawn —

— then, and only then, did Cullen retreat to a hidden nook between two cliffs, and cover his face with his hands, and shudder with a sorrow and a guilt more powerful than he could speak.

He had felt remorse a thousand times before: the great guilts that he could not save his comrades at the Circle Tower and that he allowed Meredith’s atrocities at Kirkwall, and the innumerable smaller pangs from times that his weaknesses had harmed another. This moment dwarfed those shames utterly. He was the commander of the Inquisition’s troops, and he had allowed the enemy to slaughter the lives he was sworn to protect. Had he been more vigilant, had he readied their siege weapons more thoroughly, had he kept his men alert for threats even in their triumph, then perhaps, perhaps —

A hand settled between Cullen’s shoulders, and he startled up, blinking his eyes to clear their damp bleariness.

“It’s just me,” the Iron Bull said, and his voice should not have been so calming. “Noticed you disappear out here. Mind if I join you?”

Cullen shrugged, unable to find the energy to object.

Bull lowered himself down, careful as always on his bad knee, and settled so close to Cullen that his body heat seemed to warm the air between them. Even in the snowy mountains, Bull looked comfortable in nothing but his usual pantaloons and scant harness. Cullen resisted the absurd urge to lean closer still and soak in the Qunari’s warmth.

“It’s shit,” Bull said after the silence had lingered. “And it’s gonna hurt, because it always hurts worst when they’re your boys. But you did what you could, and that’s what you have to keep telling yourself.”

Cullen didn’t respond. Bull was right, as he usually seemed to be. That still didn’t quench the rage that twisted his guts; it didn’t silence the endless whispers of _but what if?_

Again Bull gave him a few moments before he spoke. “Cullen,” he said, and Cullen startled; he’d never heard Bull say his actual name before. “I won’t touch or hurt you without your permission. But sometimes touch works better than words, and I’m guessing now is one of those times. Am I right?”

Cullen clenched his fists, digging his fingernails into his palms, and nodded slightly.

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but he still shivered when Bull twisted around to face him, then knelt in front of him, one knee on each side of Cullen’s hunched-up body. From that position, they were almost at eye level. Bull wrapped both arms around Cullen in a tight embrace, letting Cullen’s face rest in the crook of his neck.

Bull’s skin felt warm against Cullen’s chilled cheek; his musk smelled like the streets of Kirkwall, sweat and steel and leather, and not entirely unpleasant. “Hey, just breathe,” Bull said, and Cullen realized that he was still holding his muscles rigid enough to spring away. He inhaled and exhaled, trying to make himself relax, but he couldn’t silence the anxiety clawing at his throat.

“ _Breathe_ ,” Bull repeated, this time in a tone of command. One hand slid up and into Cullen’s hair, then tightened its grip, pulling his scalp taut while frissons of pain shivered down Cullen’s spine. He gasped, and when he opened his mouth, a small whining sound rose from his throat, like a keening pup. Bull chuckled and said, “I thought so,” but Cullen didn’t understand what he meant; his world had narrowed to the strength of Bull’s fingers as they held him in place by his hair.

So Cullen obeyed and breathed, squirming slightly in Bull’s grip, but only enough to confirm that he was secure. Bull squeezed his fingers a touch tighter, sending a fresh wave of pain through Cullen’s scalp, and Cullen tried not to moan. He was held in place between the rocks, Bull’s hulking mass, and the grip on his hair, and he couldn’t recall another place that had felt so safe. “That’s … good,” he murmured, and Bull’s wordless assent rumbled through Cullen’s body.

Cullen couldn’t say how long the two of them crouched there, so still that he could feel Bull’s heart beat beneath his lips. Bull’s hold relaxed with each breath, and the ebbing pain gave way to something more tender. “Let’s get you back to the fire,” Bull said at last, but he guided Cullen upward before letting him go.

The loss of skin contact sent a pang through Cullen. A wild idea flitted through his mind — the notion of taking up Bull on his offer, justifying it to himself as a simple satiation of touch. His reasons for denying Bull felt insubstantial and distant.

But now, bare hours from the defeat at Haven, was no time to pursue such thoughts. “Thank you,” he said in a low voice, and he returned to the camp, refusing to look back.

 

…

 

Over the next few days of journeying through the Frostbacks, Cullen found little opportunity to speak with the Iron Bull. Several of the Chargers had been injured in their defense of Haven, and those who were well had foraging skills in high demand among the civilian families; maintaining some semblance of order seemed to occupy most of Bull’s time.

Trevelyan stayed nearer to Cullen, guiding their company to an unspecified location, but she spoke little to anyone but Solas. Cullen found himself not displeased with the silence, as his mind and heart wrestled with how to understand the woman. Theology had never been his chief pursuit; the Chantry taught that the subtler minds of women were more suited to understand the mysteries of the Maker. Had not Andraste herself ascended to the Maker by virtue of her pure heart and keen mind? As a man, his role was to listen and obey, embodying in the physical world that which the Maker, through the voice of the Chantry, demanded.

Cullen knew that Leliana and Josephine had encouraged religious speculation about Trevelyan, but he also knew that political convenience did not negate the truth. She was the Herald of Andraste, for certain — chosen by the Lady Herself and saved from certain death, then empowered with the ability to keep darkness at bay. But more than that, she had faced down an evil of impossible magnitude, sacrificed herself in the attempt, and returned once more to the land of the living. At what point did he owe her reverence and not mere respect?

When he lay down at night, wicked visions warred in his head. He imagined worshipping her in spirit and flesh — kneeling before her feet, prostrating himself for her pleasure or punishment. Wild thoughts tempted him; perhaps she would step on him like a wolf pelt, her boots digging harsh furrows into his bare skin. Perhaps she would beckon him to crawl forward like a dog, to bury his face between her open legs until he gasped for breath against her secret places. “ _Tell me you want me,_ ” she whispered, and disobedience was inconceivable. “ _Suffer for me,_ ” she demanded, and he always begged for more.

Cullen found himself avoiding the Herald even when she sought him out, for fear that his nightly visions would reveal themselves in his expression. He followed her, ready to defend against threats natural and demonic, but spoke as little as he could manage.

At last, they reached a fortress that Solas named Skyhold, long abandoned but with solid stone bones. Trevelyan sighted the castle in high afternoon, when it gleamed bright like a fairy-tale, but the sun had long since set by the time that all the townspeople made their way within, preferring to march after dark than spend another night in the wilds. Cullen barred the gates, saw that everyone had a place to pitch their tents in the courtyard, and set his most alert soldiers on the first guard’s shift.

Then, the night’s tasks finished, he cast about for a place to rest himself. He’d warned the civilians to avoid the castle’s buildings until they’d been deemed safe, but Cullen was a master of ignoring his own advice, and he climbed up one of the watchtowers — high enough to see any approaching enemy, yet sound enough that its odds of toppling overnight seemed low. The corner of the room even had an ancient bed; its straw mattress and linens had long ago rotted, but the oiled hardwood beneath had endured, making a decent enough pallet.

Cullen cast himself down upon the bed’s planks, soaked in the sweet absence of sound around him, and fell into a blessedly dreamless sleep.


	4. make me to rest

_Wake, shivering. Break the icy crust on his water bowl, and let the shock of cold water chase the nightmares from his face. Dress and arm himself, lest the enemy come upon them again. Review the morning’s messages and address any disturbances. Organize troops, training, recruitment, rotations, strategies, stocks of arms and armor. Join the newly-crowned Inquisitor and her inner circle at the War Table, trying not to wrinkle his nose at their convoluted solutions to straightforward problems. Eat enough for sustenance; train enough for readiness; sleep enough that the Inquisitor ceased chiding. Read books by candlelight, learning ancient tactics to confront a more ancient foe. Dream. Wake, shivering._

At Skyhold, Cullen’s life took on almost as much routine as the Templars had imposed, but the routines kept him safe. The room below his makeshift bedroom turned into his office, lined with shelves that kept those books of military conquest that Skyhold’s library disdained. The reach of the Inquisition’s influence expanded, even as his own world narrowed. His lyrium kit never ceased whispering its beguiling song.

Some weeks after Skyhold was gained, the Inquisitor returned from a lengthy journey to restore order in Orlais, cleansing the Emerald Graves and the Exalted Plains of their evils and closing their rifts. She’d traveled with only a small retinue of companions, and Cullen’s traitorous eyes kept latching onto Bull’s bulky form as he watched them cross the bridge into Skyhold. They all looked weary and dusty but well, and he exhaled in relief, then sat down to prepare a condensed briefing for Trevelyan, to summarize what had occurred in her absence.

“Sir,” a young voice said. Cullen looked up and saw Lieutenant Aclassi standing before him, holding a small roll of parchment in his hand. “The report on Haven that you requested. You’ll want to read it soon — we encountered a couple of small complications.” He hesitated a moment. “At the bottom of the report is a list of those dead we could identify. For the rest, we gathered any personal effects before burying the bodies, in hopes that others here could identify them.”

“Thank you.” Cullen tried not to sigh too openly at the costs of their defeat. “You’ve done good work; I appreciate it.”

“Just doing my job, sir.”

“I suppose. Still, I imagine you aren’t used to the way the Inquisitor borrows your captain for her travels. I appreciate that you kept your men useful while he was gone.”

“It’s tough for all of us without the Captain around, but we manage.” Aclassi’s face didn’t so much as twitch, but Cullen sensed a faint smirk in his voice nonetheless. He chose to ignore it. “I noticed that you said ‘was’ gone?”

“As it happens, I saw the Inquisitor’s party entering Skyhold just a few moments ago. So you’ll have him back soon enough.”

“Good to hear.” Aclassi shifted in place a little awkwardly. “Sir, may I speak freely for a minute?”

“Of course,” Cullen said, quelling his sudden trepidation.

“The Chargers like you. You know what you’re doing, and you don’t treat us like idiots just because we don’t march in formation. Even aside from the whole ‘saving the world’ part, this is one of the best jobs we’ve had.”

“That’s … good?”

Aclassi plowed on. “You’re a good man, is what I’m saying, and you’d be welcome to share a round of drinks with us any time.”

“Well, thank you.” Cullen still felt utterly lost, but Aclassi gave him a sharp bow, as if he’d said what he came to say, and left the room at a brisk pace.

Cullen had the sudden premonition that his routine was about to be shaken up thoroughly.

 

…

 

The first sign of his premonition coming true took place within hours. After a lengthy debrief at the War Table, the Inquisitor announced that “Varric’s friend” had recently arrived to help them with the Gray Wardens riddle. Varric’s friend, it turned out, was the bloody Champion of Kirkwall. Trevelyan said that Hawke wouldn’t be staying at Skyhold for long, just enough to restock supplies for the long trek to the Western Approach, but his presence itched at Cullen’s skin. He wasn’t proud of that phase of his history, when he’d cast aside his human empathy in favor of the sweet ignorance of following orders. He’d tried not to be that person any more, Andraste knew, but Hawke’s blood-marked face reminded him that his past was not so very far behind.

In light of their guest, Cullen made the strategic decision to keep to his office and quarters for the remainder of the day. (He wasn’t hiding, he told himself. _A Templar never hides from his duty._ ) When the evening’s candle had burned to a stub and his stream of incoming reports had slowed to a stop, Cullen began to clear his desk in preparation for the night.

A heavy knock on the door halted his organizing. “Come in,” Cullen called. It was probably another message from Guard Norris; ever since Haven, the poor man had seen Corypheus’s army in every gleam of the moon on the mountains.

It wasn’t Norris. The Iron Bull strode in; he’d shed his dusty traveling gear, but replaced it with a pungent cloud of alcohol and hops that betrayed an evening in the tavern. His movements looked sober, at least, and Cullen schooled his face into professionalism. “What can I help you with?”

Bull nodded at his desk. “You done with work for the night?”

“Almost. Just finishing tidying up.”

“I can wait,” Bull said with finality, and he walked over to the bookshelves while Cullen resumed sorting his reports. He waited there in silence for a few minutes, reading over the books’ titles with the occasional hum of appreciation or disparaging scoff. Just as Cullen was putting away his final pen, Bull spoke. “I expected the Legend of Calenhad and the Badenflus, but three volumes on Nevarran chess techniques aren’t normal for a military library.”

Cullen shrugged, self-conscious. “You’d be surprised how relevant the two are. Knights may not move the same on the battlefield as on the chessboard, but the broader techniques — thinking several moves ahead, recognizing the enemy’s strategy and changing your own to respond, anticipating opportunities so you can seize them, —“

“Hold up,” Bull said, holding up his hand to interrupt. “I wasn’t criticizing. We should play sometime.”

“Oh. Well. All right, then.” Cullen raised a challenging eyebrow. “Just as long as you promise not to go easy on me this time. I’d like to know how it feels to beat you fair and square.”

Bull laughed. “Confident. I like it. You done here?”

Cullen surveyed his workspace. On another night, he might have fiddled for another few minutes, straightening corners and sweeping off dust, but it would do. “I suppose so.”

“Good. You got a place to talk about things that aren’t work? I’d suggest the tavern, but Hawke’s still there, trying to beat Varric at a drinking competition.”

A bark of laughter escaped Cullen. “I think that the loser in that competition will be Cabot’s stocks of whiskey.”

“Knew you were a smart guy. So, where’s good?”

The answer was obvious, even if it did send prickles up Cullen’s spine. “My quarters are just up the ladder. Less ale than the tavern, but less chance of having to listen to a ballad about Sera.”

“Definitely worth the trade-off.” Bull motioned to the ladder, a simple _after you_ gesture with no innuendo to it. Maybe, Cullen thought, this wasn’t what he’d anticip— what he’d feared.

Up in Cullen’s quarters, Bull sprawled himself out on a pile of fallen roof beams, looking up at the stars through the gap they’d left in the ceiling. “Nice view.”

“Thank you.” Cullen sat down next to him, shifting around for a comfortable spot.

“Seems like it’d get a little chilly, though.”

“I bundle up.” Cullen stood back up and tugged off his sword belt and armor, hoping that the lack of pointy metal bits would make it easier to find somewhere to sit.

No such luck.

Just as Cullen was debating whether he could suggest they move to his bed, without sounding like the worst kind of come-on, Bull stretched out one arm. “Just come over here, kid. I have it on good authority from our Inquisitor that I shed heat like an Orzammar furnace.”

“She’s not wrong,” Cullen said dryly. He moved next to Bull, tentatively at first, then felt himself relaxing against Bull’s solid chest and now-familiar scent. “So, ah, how are things going there?”

Bull’s laugh rumbled through Cullen like a thunderstorm on a woodshed. “Things are good, but not like that. She’s a damn special woman, and now that she and Josie are getting their shit together, everyone’s happy.”

“Josie?” Cullen’s forehead crinkled, and then he remembered that morning, weeks ago, when he and Josephine had interrupted Bull and Trevelyan at their lovemaking, and comprehension dawned. “You set that whole encounter up!” Bull’s amused silence gave ample confirmation. “Maker’s breath, you really are just a matchmaking mother hen sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” Bull agreed. “But yeah. You don’t need to worry about the Inquisitor calling down Rift demons to defend my honor.”

Cullen had gotten good at suppressing his reaction to demons, but with half his body curled against Bull’s, his flinch must have been impossible to miss.

“So speaking of … those things. I spent some time chatting with Hawke at the tavern today. He had some interesting stories to tell.”

“Ah.” Cullen prepared for the inevitable questions; sometimes they were curious, sometimes critical, usually pitying.

“How much do you know about Seheron?”

Well, _that_ wasn’t a question he’d expected. “Ah … as much as anyone, I suppose? With the Imperium and the Qunari tearing it apart between them, people here and in Kirkwall were mostly just grateful that we weren’t in the middle. It’s still under dispute, yes?”

“Oh yeah. I hear it’s only gotten worse since I left.”

Then Bull told him about Seheron: the fear and desperation that sweated from the very walls, the fields studded with magical mines that could incinerate a child in seconds, the way you learned to tell whether a beggar wanted to ask for money or distract you from a poisoned dagger. Bull spoke in a calm voice, letting the content of his stories speak for themselves, and Cullen found himself clutching the Qunari tight with sympathy. At least with demons and abominations, the face of evil wasn’t as banal as the teenager next door.

Cullen wasn’t sure how long Bull talked, his remaining eye gazing up at the panoply of constellations. When the words ceased, Cullen squeezed his shoulder again. “My sympathies.”

“Eh, I’m fine. I got out, and I got better. I just wanted to let you know that if you ever want to talk about Kirkwall or the Circle Tower, there isn’t much you could say that would make me stop listening.”

“I appreciate the offer.” Then Cullen tilted his head toward Bull. “Did the dreams ever go away?”

Bull shrugged. “Some of them. Over time, you start having other things to dream about, and if you’re lucky, those things are a little sweeter to remember. Sometimes it helps to have someone else there while you sleep, to remind you what’s real and what isn’t. Some of the dreams never go away, but you learn to keep on living.”

“Right. I suppose that an easy trick would have been too much to hope for.”

“Probably, yeah. The Ben-Hassrath know how to reprogram people’s minds, nudging memories in one direction or another, but we still haven’t figured out how to control dreams.” A slow exhale, almost a sigh. “Look, kid. I don’t push where I’m not wanted. I put the ball in your court, and I told myself I’d leave you alone until you decided whether to pick it up. But I’m worried about you. I got back from this trip, and I saw that Skyhold’s in good shape — the Great Hall’s nice enough for visiting nobles, shopkeepers are building up their stocks, each of the Chargers has their favorite barmaid. And then there’s you, still living like we’re on the run, too wrapped up in your tunnel vision to patch your own damn roof. You need something to take that load of your shoulders, and if you don’t want it to be me, that’s fine, but you need _something_.”

Cullen wanted to argue, he really did, but he was just so blighted tired of the whole routine. “All right. You, then.”

“You’re sure,” Bull prompted. “Because if you’d rather find someone —“

“You,” Cullen repeated, and he kissed Bull on the mouth.

 

…

 

The kiss lasted for only a few tentative seconds before Bull’s hand tightened in Cullen’s hair, the way it had the night after Haven fell. Just like then, Cullen couldn’t help his immediate reaction, tilting his hair back and whimpering without restraint. “You’re so sweet for me,” Bull growled, and Cullen wanted to protest that he’d never been _sweet_ , but Bull’s teeth seized the thin skin below Cullen’s ear and bit, hard enough to force a cry from Cullen’s lips. “Come here.”

Cullen had almost forgotten that they were still sprawled across the mess of fallen beams, but before the sharp imprint of Bull’s teeth had faded, Bull stood and yanked Cullen upwards by his hair. When he released him, Cullen still wasn’t quite standing; he stumbled to his knees on the floor in front of Bull. From here, the already tall Qunari looked like a colossus, distant and immutable.

Bull’s grip loosened, but he continued to hold Cullen’s head in place with one hand, using the other to stroke Cullen’s cheek with a surprisingly delicate touch. “Most folks who want distraction, they’re looking to feel so good that they can’t think any more. And I _will_ make you feel good. But I think what you need is to hurt so much that you can know you’ve earned the pleasure.”

Cullen’s thoughts felt loose and blurry, as if Bull’s manhandling had signaled his mind to let go of all the reins he’d been clutching so tight. He tried to process Bull’s words, but it was so hard to focus.

“Hey, you don’t have to answer that now. Just know that if I do anything you don’t want, you can tell me. For tonight, we’ll keep things simple: you say stop, and I stop. Got it?”

Cullen nodded. Bull’s hands on his head felt so nice, but they also kept his eye level at Bull’s waist, and he was having trouble not getting distracted by his memory of what waited beneath those loose trousers.

Maybe his thoughts hadn’t been too subtle, because Bull chuckled then. “You want a taste? Okay. Take off your jacket and shirt, all the way down to your skin, and crawl to me.”

 _Crawl_. The thought set his stomach churning with tangled shame and desire. He’d never crawled for anyone before. But Bull wasn’t forcing him, and he didn’t seem to be mocking him. He’d just said a straightforward command, knowing that Cullen would choose to obey.

So he did. He unfastened his jacket, fingers clumsy on the clasps, and continued to undress until he knelt in only his breeches and boots. Once or twice, he glanced up nervously; Bull had moved to the edge of the bed and shucked off his pantaloons and boots in the process. He sat there unselfconsciously naked, legs sprawled wide apart, his gaze intent on Cullen. Bull’s cock lay heavy between his legs, thick and half-erect, and Cullen licked his lips without meaning to.

“You’re not crawling yet,” Bull said mildly, and Cullen flinched at his distraction.

“Ser,” he replied with bowed head, an instinct ingrained from years of Templar corrections, and began to crawl.

The floor felt cold beneath his bare hands, a match for the chilled night air. Cullen felt goosebumps rise on his skin as he crawled; his nipples hardened into tight nubs at the exposure. The air felt chilly enough on his member that it softened a little, and Cullen glanced down at himself, feeling irrationally ashamed.

“Cullen,” Bull said, jerking his attention back forward. “Whether or not you’re hard doesn’t matter. Your job is to crawl here and get me off with your mouth.”

The words slapped Cullen like whiplash. He didn’t have to feel anything; his arousal _didn’t matter_. The contrast to his nightmares couldn’t have been sharper. All he had to do was serve.

By the time that he reached the edge of the bed, his lips had parted in anticipation.

Bull tilted Cullen’s head back and pressed the crown of his cock against his lips. “Now suck. Use your hands if you want.” Cullen left out a soft, needy gasp, then opened his mouth further as Bull pushed inward. The Qunari was big — not the grotesque priapism that abounded in soldiers’ dirty drawings, maybe, but large enough to strain the edges of comfort. “Good,” Bull soothed, letting Cullen take him deeper at his own rate. “Gonna train you to take it all for me. You’ll just open up and let me take you, fuck your mouth as hard as I want, until you’re begging for air, and you’ll be so good for me, won’t you.”

His obscene promises sent little shockwaves of want through Cullen, but he tried so hard to focus solely on Bull’s pleasure. He dragged his tongue over the contours of Bull’s dick, sucking it deep while he flickered over the veins underneath, then pulled back and teased at his foreskin, flickering over Bull’s slit to taste the tang of his pre-cum. “That’s right,” Bull said, his voice growling deep. “You’re perfect like this, down on your knees for me.”

His approval washed through Cullen, an intoxicating draught, and Cullen’s throat relaxed further and took Bull further in. Breath could barely seep into his lungs now, blocked by the firm weight of Bull’s cock, but he inhaled when he could and endured the rest. Bull cursed, “Fuck, that’s good,” and pushed deeper; his hands cradled Cullen’s head between them, maintaining a visceral contrast between his stinging scalp and his gently caressed cheek.

Just a little more, he told himself, just a little further. Cullen choked in air and ignored his gag reflex, and darkness prickled at the edges of his vision, and suddenly he felt a wall in his mind crumble apart and he was doing it, he was taking Bull fully, his throat achingly tight around the head of Bull’s cock, and Bull roared loud enough to echo off the walls and spilled down Cullen’s throat.

Then Bull pulled out, just as lack of air began to send the room spinning around Cullen; his hands didn’t quite release Cullen’s head, but their grip loosened enough for Cullen to tilt forward and rest his head against the warm bulk of Bull’s thigh. His throat felt raw, and his eyes watered. He couldn’t quite decide between gulping in air and sobbing out desperation.

“You were magnificent,” Bull said; he stroked Cullen’s hair, loosening its stiffness into a tangle of curls. “Come on up here.”

Cullen tried to obey, but his muscles felt loose, watery. In the end, Bull half-pulled him upward and onto his lap. The rush of blood back into Cullen’s knees sent pained relief blossoming through his legs, and he slumped forward onto Bull’s chest, tucking his head down like a child.

“That’s right. Just breathe and let me do this for you.” Bull hugged Cullen to himself with one arm, and his free hand slipped between their bodies to grasp Cullen’s cock. He’d almost forgotten about his own arousal in the intensity of focusing on Bull’s pleasure, but a few gentle strokes had an immediate effect. “Another time, we can make this part hurt for you, too. I bet you’d look damn good caught in that spiral, where one sensation piles on top of another until you can’t tell the pain from the pleasure any more. But right now, I just want to watch that weight come off your shoulders.” As he spoke, his hand worked up and down Cullen’s shaft, punctuating its rhythm with a caress of Cullen’s balls or the brush of a rough fingertip over his slit. His arm slid up and down Cullen’s back, innocent at first, but soon drifting down over Cullen’s ass. When the tip of his thumb reached Cullen’s entrance, he lingered there, teasing it with dry soft touches that made Cullen groan into his chest with wanting. “Next time,” Bull promised, and he quickened his pace on Cullen’s dick until Cullen shuddered.

“May I —“ Cullen started to ask, then winced at the ridiculous question. Bull hadn’t ordered him _not_ to climax.

But Bull hummed in response, almost a purr vibrating his chest, and gave Cullen’s dick an especially tender squeeze. “Yes, little one. Come whenever you’re ready.” He kept stroking, firm and even, like a pilgrim ascending a cliff, step by step by step, knowing the peak approached but patient enough to maintain his tread, and then Cullen reached that peak and tumbled down the cliff and came so hard that he could think of nothing but wordless bliss.

Cullen tracked Bull’s movements vaguely after his climax. The Qunari lifted him up bodily, still sprawled around Bull like a little child, and deposited him into a more comfortable position on the bed. Then Bull sat next to him, protective and warm, and ran one finger through the splashes of cum on Cullen’s belly.

“You looked so damn hot with your mouth on me.” He touched the slick tip of his finger to Cullen’s lips, and Cullen parted them and sucked it in. He felt far too wrung-dry for his dick to take interest, but the bitter tang of his seed and the rhythmic motions of sucking satisfied something primal in him. The way that Bull’s pupil darkened with lust at the sight didn’t hurt. Bull pulled his finger out with a pop and scooped up another helping, this time with two fingers, enough to fill Cullen’s mouth pleasantly. “You have no idea how special you are,” he said, his voice low and strangely raw.

A few minutes later, Bull had fed Cullen most of the mess from his stomach, and he bent down for a fierce kiss. “Thank you for trusting me with this. You look about ready to pass out, so I’ll let you do that. But you know my door’s always open to you.”

“Mmmm,” Cullen agreed, although he’d likely have agreed to anything from his comfortable sprawl.

Bull chuckled and stood up, pulling his clothes back on with a few efficient movements. He ruffled Cullen’s hair once more, then headed to climb downstairs

“Oh, and Cullen?” Bull paused, a few rungs down the ladder. A playful note teased his voice. “Next time, either we do this in my room, or you fix that damn roof.”

Cullen frowned sleepily. “I thought you didn’t mind the cold.”

He shot him an exasperated look. “ _I’m_ fine, yeah, but I don’t like worrying that your rosy skin is going to turn blue. In case you hadn’t picked up on it, I’m pretty invested in your continued wellbeing.”

“Oh.” Cullen blinked and forced his jaw to close, but before he could finish processing Bull’s implications, the room was empty.

 

…

 

The next morning, Cullen paced his room restlessly and waited for the other shoe to drop. Every time he’d bedded someone, ever since the Circle Tower, the encounter had been infected by his memories of the demons. Sometimes the thoughts would burst in during lovemaking — the flutter of dark eyelashes, or the graze of fingertips on his cheek — and he’d fight to keep himself from a violent recoil, continuing his movements by rote until he could distract himself with his arousal and exertion. Other times, when alcohol or infatuation had dulled his senses, he wouldn’t make the connection until later, and that was easier. But the images always returned in time; they poisoned his thoughts like almond-sweet cyanide.

At the Circle Tower, the demons had worked their wiles so cunningly. Before, Cullen had thought that Amell was the love of his life, a flawless paragon whose mischievous smile and sharp tongue only added to her charms. It was horribly adolescent, in retrospect, but it meant that the desire demons’ job was simple: convince him that the one person he most wanted could be his. Perhaps this single-mindedness also saved him, though, because the utter conviction of his love was matched by the utter conviction of its hopelessness. She would never reciprocate, and even if he did, he could never accept it — any deviation from that reality had to be a lie.

 _This is no lie,_ he would tell himself when later lovers beckoned him with smiling kisses — and when he was very lucky, for a little while, he could believe it.

But Bull’s eyelashes had not fluttered.

The sharp jerk of fingers in his scalp had cut through Cullen’s dark memories like a scimitar, tethering him to the present. Even in the last sensuous moments, Bull never pretended to tempt or beckon Cullen; he simply offered release like a gift, one that it would not weaken Cullen to accept.

Cullen waited all morning for his memories to distort, but the scar-mottled gray of Bull’s skin never faded to an otherworldly purple, and his crinkled smile never lost its respect. The relief buoyed him all day, brighter than a Summerday dawn, and the next time that Bull offered his company, Cullen could not find it in himself to refuse.

 

…

 

A note appeared the following week in Cullen’s office, written in an unfamiliar hand.

_Our dear Ambassador received a chess set from some Free Marcher prince with ivory to spare. A little bird told me that you liked to play. Care for a game?_

_Waiting in anticipation,  
the handsomest Tevinter of the Inquisition (sorry, Krem)_

Cullen raised an eyebrow at the invitation, but it had been ages since he’d last played someone competent, and he could admit a certain thrill at the thought of defeating the smug mage. He wrote back to suggest a time, and by the thick amber sunshine of late afternoon, the two were setting up a match in Skyhold’s gardens.

“So, what ‘little bird’ revealed my secrets?” Cullen asked, nudging one pawn into perfect symmetry with its neighbors.

“I wouldn’t want to betray my feathered friends, especially not one who sings so sweetly.” Cullen quirked his lips: a certain Nightingale, then. Dorian returned his half-smile, then continued. “So does black go first, even down south?”

“Er, yes.”

“How delightfully heretical! There’s hope for you heathens yet.” Dorian nudged his first piece forward.

Cullen considered the opening move and the man who’d made it. They’d run into each other a few times since arriving at Skyhold, but not enough for Cullen to have a strong read on his character. Either Dorian knew some techniques that he didn’t, or (Cullen thought, perhaps uncharitably) he was planning to cheat. Well, the right stabilizing techniques would help either way. He made his move.

Cullen would have been content to play quietly, relishing his time back at a chessboard, but Dorian seemed incapable of letting the air grow silent around him. To Cullen’s surprise, though, the mage’s conversation wasn’t entirely irritating. They started with neutral subjects — the weather (cold), the kitchen’s cooking (exceptionally unexceptional), and Maryden’s musical repertoire (dreadfully plebeian, according to Dorian). Soon, though, Cullen was telling him how he’d learned to play chess with his siblings, and Dorian was talking about growing up in Tevinter’s upper crust. Chess had been a mandatory activity, along with noble arts like fencing and ballroom dance, and every Thursday, Dorian’s tutors and parents would only speak or respond to him in Common. (“I used to think that Common Day was utterly ridiculous,” he confessed, “but people here talk so much about my ‘articulate speech’ that you’d think I deserved sainthood just for learning to talk like them.”)

Unfortunately, Dorian turned out to be less gifted at chess than conversation; he could analyze the board with lightning clarity, but lacked the patience to plan more than a turn or two ahead. To his credit, though, the man was an excellent cheater. Through some combination of sleight of hand and engagingly flirtatious speech, he never seemed to move a single piece from its proper position. If Cullen hadn’t long ago gotten into the habit of memorizing the chess board to play by memory — a necessity during long Templar shifts on his feet — he’d never have noticed the subtle changes.

As it was, Dorian cheated with such cheerful shamelessness that in the end, Cullen’s approaching victory tasted twice as sweet. Barely three moves from checkmate, though, Bull strolled up to the veranda. “Commander, Dorian,” he nodded in greeting. “What do we have here?”

Dorian’s lip curled. “Captain! This is a game called _chess_. It’s played in civilized countries as a means of passing the time. Lots of rules, though, so don’t feel too bad if it’s beyond you.”

Cullen was appalled at Dorian’s rudeness, but the friendly smirk on Bull’s face made him wonder whether it was simply intended as a friendly jest. “Yeah, it looks pretty complicated to pick up,” Bull agreed. “Is that why the Commander’s about to beat you in three?”

Dorian frowned, looked at the board, frowned deeper, then glared back up at Bull with considerable annoyance. “Well. Since we’ve been interrupted already, I ought to be going. Things to do, books to annotate, et cetera. Another time?”

“Absolutely,” Cullen said, and found he meant it. Despite everything, he had enjoyed himself; Maker knew that Dorian could be charming, and what he lacked in foresight, he made up for with admirably brazen egotism. “I should go too — unless you’d like a match?” Dorian’s jab notwithstanding, Cullen had no idea whether the Qunari actually played chess.

“Eh, can’t hurt.” Bull cracked his knuckles, stretched his arms, and sat down across the board.

Within a few moves, Cullen realized that Bull was on an entirely different level of chess mastery than his last opponent. He wasn’t about to concede defeat, but neither was he certain of his victory. Bull played deceptively, not aggressively; he wasn’t afraid to sacrifice pieces in order to mislead, or change strategies partway whenever Cullen caught on.

“You’re good,” Bull said warmly, several moves in.

Cullen dipped his head at the compliment, appreciating it as genuine. “You too. Where’d you learn to play?”

“Seheron. There was a little park near our compound, set up with those stone tables that have the squares carved into the surface. It took months before they got comfortable with me watching the old men play each other, and more months before they were happy sitting down across from me.”

“Didn’t like getting beaten by a Qunari?”

Bull laughed. “That wasn’t the issue. They kicked my ass. These guys had been meeting there to play chess for decades, while the governments outside the park rose and fell and rebuilt, and I was a smart ass kid who thought I could pick it up in a few months. They went easy on me, the first couple of times, but once they figured out that I wouldn’t denounce them as rebels for beating me at chess, they let loose. We started to draw small crowds of people, all there to laugh at the sight of a Qunari getting his butt kicked by a lowly native.”

“And you didn’t mind?”

“Mind? I loved it. I got to spend time thinking about problems that weren’t solved by _gaatlok_ and collateral damage, and the other guys were so sick of the war that any kind of political talk was taboo.”

“Did you ever end up beating one of them?”

Bull’s smile faded. “The park got battered by poison grenades during a clash on the street nearby. When the plants regrew, they weren’t right. Came up twisted and oily-dark, with prickles that would give you a rash if you brushed by. We couldn’t pay gardeners enough to keep them at bay. I never figured out where the old men ended up playing instead.”

 _If they survived the fight,_ Cullen wanted to add, but didn’t, because Bull wasn’t stupid. He moved his next piece without thinking, then winced when he realized the opening he’d given Bull.

Bull shrugged when he saw the move, but he didn’t hesitate to take advantage of it. Good. “I used to be known as ‘the chess guy’ at the Circle Tower,” Cullen said, aware of his abruptness. “I had a set I’d brought from home — just a folding board and some carved-wood tokens — but I’d usually just play by memory during guard duty, with the other Templars or the mages.”

Then he took a deep breath and began to talk.


	5. hear my cry

As the Inquisitor traveled Thedas and Cullen mustered his troops, an icy spring turned into a cool, dry summer. Sometimes, weeks would pass without a glimpse of Bull, while he accompanied Trevelyan or led his Chargers on a mission. But whenever he stayed at Skyhold, even for a brief stopover, Bull would drop by Cullen’s office to catch up and invite him to a chess game, a sparring match, or a tryst. (To Bull’s great disappointment, Cullen refused to attempt all three simultaneously, Bull’s proficiency at playing _sans voir_ notwithstanding.)

During their fourth time together, Bull pulled out a large wooden brush, the sort of implement that one might use as a curry comb. Its impact felt heavy and deep on Cullen’s arse, a thud that lingered beyond the sharp slap of impact, and after just a few strokes, Cullen felt involuntary tears coming to his eyes. With another few smacks of the paddle, he’d begun to sob: “Please, Maker, please, please _stop_ ,” hardly understanding his own words.

The next strike never came. Cullen heard a clatter as the paddle dropped onto the floor nearby, and the next thing he knew, his wrists were being untied from each other. “You all right?” Bull asked, his hands guiding Cullen’s arms down and into a more comfortable position.

“You … you stopped.” Cullen sounded baffled, he knew, but he wasn’t sure what to think. He trusted Bull to respect his wishes; that wasn’t the surprise. But despite having asked Bull to stop, he felt oddly empty, even disappointed. He could hardly have expected Bull to read his mind and know that “stop” didn’t really mean “stop,” though, so… His thoughts chased each other in circles, still floating and loose from the fading throbbing of his arse.

“Ah,” Bull said, knowingly. “I should have introduced watchwords earlier.” He climbed onto the bed and curled around Cullen; one hand roved over his nude body. His blunt fingernails ran lightly over Cullen’s arse, eliciting a strained whimper. “Watchwords are a trick for this kind of play. It’s a word that we pick together, something that you wouldn’t normally say. That way, if you say it, I know that you really do need me to stop, or that something is actually wrong. And otherwise, you can let yourself protest as much as you want, and I’ll feel free to ignore it as much as I want.”

A shiver ran through Cullen at the thought of being able to cry _no, no_ while Bull did whatever he pleased, all with that steady undercurrent of shared safety. “I like the idea of that trick.”

“It’s useful, yeah. You can pick whatever word you like, but if you don’t already have one in mind, I normally suggest ‘ _katoh_.’”

Cullen snickered abruptly.

“What?” Bull asked, his voice amused.

“It’s just … I don’t know very much Qunlat, but that’s one of the words I do know. We’d sometimes get curious Qunari lurking around the Kirkwall Gallows, new transfers who wanted to see what we barbarians did with our mages. I found that barking ‘ _stop!_ ’ at them in their own language was the best way to keep them out.”

Bull laughed, a deep belly laugh that shook Cullen’s body as well as his own. “That’ll work all right, then.”

“Apparently so.” Cullen let his body flop down on the bed; he didn’t have the kind of deep lassitude that a good hard beating or fucking might have brought about, but he felt lazy and comfortable, soaking in Bull’s body heat. “We can continue if you want, now that we’ve established that.”

Bull shrugged. “Eh, I’ve got a different idea. Why don’t you get up and straddle my hips — yeah, just like that.”

Bull’s thighs were thick enough to pull Cullen’s legs wider than was quite comfortable, but the position also spread him open in a way that felt deliciously obscene, and he appreciated the chance to avoid putting pressure on his still-sore arse. Bull reached for the oil he’d kept handy and poured a generous amount into one palm, then used it to slick up his and Cullen’s cocks. He shifted Cullen’s hips with his other arm until their cocks rubbed up against each other, slippery but solid. “Good boy,” he rumbled, and wrapped his broad, oiled hand completely around both of their shafts. The firm strokes that followed felt so good that Cullen nearly let himself collapse forward, and Bull chuckled. “Hold onto my horns if you want something to grab. I’ve got this.”

Cullen obediently gripped Bull’s horns, a move that left him hovering taut-muscled above Bull’s own body. Bull resumed stroking their dicks together, a slick, intense pressure that soon had Cullen bucking his hips forward and begging for more. “Almost there, _kadan_ ,” Bull promised with a growl. His strokes grew swifter, firmer, and suddenly the nails of his other hand were raking deep into the welts on Cullen’s arse, the pain bright and intense. Cullen sobbed and thrusted and swiftly came in hot spurts across Bull’s chest, followed only moments later by Bull’s own release.

Afterward, Bull helped Cullen down to the bed and wiped up the mess on his own chest, then cradled Cullen in his arms, each inhalation and exhalation deep and reassuring.

“What was that word you said earlier?” Cullen asked after a few moments of silence. “I didn’t recognize it.”

“What, _kadan_?” Bull’s steady breathing stuttered for a second, then resumed. “It’s … well, it’s a little tough to translate. I don’t know if you picked up on this, but Qunlat has modes of speech to show the relationship between the speaker and the listener. So the way you say something is different depending on whether you’re strangers, polite equals, a subordinate talking to a superior, that kind of thing. A _kadan_ is someone who’s earned the most intimate, respectful form of speech.” Bull paused, weighing his words. “Literally translated, it’s someone who’s as close to you as your own heart.”

“Ah. I’m, ah, not entirely sure how to respond to that.”

“You don’t have to. Just know that as long and as much as you want to be mine, it’s a responsibility that I’ll take as seriously as you deserve.”

 _Yours._ Cullen formed the word with his lips, but didn’t say it aloud. He’d given himself to the Templars, long ago, and learned that it meant sacrificing himself, over and over, until he had nothing left to give. But he’d done it anyway, and what did that say about himself? Bull, at least, would always do everything to protect those who were his, and the Templars could never have said the same.

Cullen wondered what it would be like to belong to another, not as a resource to be used, but as a cherished possession — something as precious and protected as his own heart.

 

…

 

A few days later, Cullen lay on his stomach on Bull’s bed, breathing in the mingled scents of elfroot and beeswax. Bull’s hands glided smoothly across his back as they administered a light healing lotion — not enough to take away tomorrow’s reminder of their activities, but a layer of sweet coolness to make sure he could fall asleep that night.

Bull had tied him in position on the bed, spread-eagled and face-down with a stone phallus stretching his hole, and dripped beeswax onto Cullen’s skin. He’d started with scattered drops of wax, sending little shocks of heat across Cullen’s back and thighs. Then, as the sharp pinpoints faded, Bull had ramped up their intensity: aiming for the sensitive skin of Cullen’s knees and neck; lowering the candle until each droplet was still flame-hot; pouring the wax into a pool at the hollow of his spine, so the burn could linger and sink into his flesh while he squirmed and clawed at the sheets. Cullen had sobbed, yes, but he didn’t truly break until Bull pulled apart his buttocks, exposing his plugged arsehole, and poured the wax so it flowed across his stretched-thin rim, between his legs, over his balls — and then, Maker, how he’d screamed and screamed.

Bull had broken him apart and restored him to a new whole, and now his hands grounded Cullen, freeing Cullen’s mind to drift like a dust mote in a cascade of light.

“I heard you’re gonna join the boss at Halamshiral,” Bull commented as he rubbed the lotion in.

Cullen nodded. His tongue still felt heavy as lead; the two of them had found that he could sink more deeply into their games when he let go of the responsibility to speak, and he hadn’t quite yet returned to normal.

“Bet you’ll cut a fine figure in formalwear; I almost wish I was going, just to see it.” Bull paused contemplatively. “But then I remember all the other times I’ve gotten paraded around to nobles like a bear in a jester’s costume, and I’m just fine with staying to guard Skyhold.” He chuckled, a light sound that helped fend off Cullen’s indignation at the memories. “Just remember that one dance means you’re being polite, two means you might hook up in the coat room, and three dances means that you’re about to propose.”

“I don’t dance,” Cullen said, his voice rough and quiet.

“Well, that’s a damn shame. You’re very good at following _me_.”

Cullen closed his eyes for a moment. He’d followed Knight-Commander Meredith into madness and evil, and told himself afterwards that his willingness to obey was weakness, never mind what the Templars taught. But Bull talked about “following” like it was a talent, not an inescapable flaw. “If _you_ tried to teach me to dance, I might actually give it a shot.”

At that, Bull let out a hearty laugh. “Another night, maybe. I actually had a question for you.” His voice dropped into a more serious tone, the way it did whenever he was negotiating boundaries. “You’ll be gone for two weeks, and I thought it might make your homecoming a little sweeter if you’ve been waiting all that time to be touched.”

“You mean —“

“I mean that if you’re up for the challenge, I don’t want you to touch yourself, or let anyone else touch you that way, while you’re gone.” Bull slid a hand below Cullen’s hips, grasping his still-sensitive cock. “This is mine. And I’m willing to bet that if you spend all that time being so good for me, it’s gonna make the eventual payoff worth it.”

Cullen bit his lip and contemplated the idea, trying not to let Bull’s fingers distract him. He’d gone that long without touching himself, probably; exhausting campaigns and tight quarters sometimes made self-restraint the simpler choice. But he knew for a fact that if he did this, it wouldn’t be easy. Every time his cock stirred and he had to think, _no, this is only for Bull_ — Maker’s breath, that would only make him harder.

“You want me to do this?” he asked at last.

“Mmmm,” Bull said, kissing Cullen at the nape of his neck. “You’ve got so much simmering below your surface, and you’re fucking gorgeous when you’re using all your strength to keep it in check. You have no idea how hot it’ll be to know that you’re out there, surrounded by beautiful people, getting harder and more desperate every day. And when you get back, I am going to wreck you. Completely.”

“Yes,” Cullen groaned.

This was a terrible idea. He was going to be miserable in Orlais. He’d regret his promise after a day.

His blood already burned with anticipation.

 

…

 

Duke Gaspard had only been able to procure seven invitations for the Inquisition, so with Leliana, Josephine, and Trevelyan as givens, they’d discussed the most politically useful options for the remaining slots. Vivienne was an obvious choice; even though she was no longer active as Enchanter of the Orlesian Court, her name and favor held considerable cachet in Orlais. Dorian won the second space, despite the Imperium’s reputation, thanks to his comfort with courtly protocol and the message it would send of the Inquisition as a truly international endeavor. Finally, Leliana and Josephine insisted that Cullen and Cassandra round out the group, despite their ardent objections. Cassandra, at least, had once been at court, even if she had rejected that world; Cullen, he thought sourly to himself, would be the only one there with little experience and less interest in the intrigues.

But the united will of Josephine and Leliana made a terrifying coalition, and so Cullen went.

The seven traveled to Halamshiral with only a small team of guards, who kept to themselves, clearly intimidated by their escort. All the other Inquisition forces would travel separately and covertly, so that their presence at the Winter Palace wouldn’t encourage Corypheus to pick a different opportunity. That left Cullen with five women and Dorian — and of _course_ the women cited propriety and made him share his tent with the mage.

To be fair, he really didn’t mind Dorian’s company; the two had become something like friends over the course of several weeks and many chess games. If Dorian was a Tevinter spy, he’d been playing an exceedingly long game, and Cullen would leave those sorts of suspicions for Leliana to analyze. But what truly won Cullen over was the loneliness that ever-so-rarely seeped out from under Dorian’s facade. Living and working among people who mistrusted your every action, just because of whom you represented, was something with which Cullen could relate.

So the problem wasn’t that he disliked Dorian. The problem was that Dorian flirted with everyone, without modesty or discrimination, and Cullen had never quite figured out how to be flirted with.

Cullen spent most of their first day of travel in silence, enjoying the fresh air and changing scenery of the mountains. Leliana and Vivienne carried on a discussion that was either about snoufleur-skin shoes or about an Orlesian noblewoman having an affair with her stepson, and after listening in for an hour, Cullen still couldn’t tell which. Dorian and Trevelyan, on the other hand, seemed to be conducting their conversation by means of whispers, giggles, and meaningful glances at their fellow travelers.

They made camp in a blossoming meadow at the foot of the Frostbacks; the night air was heady with embrium when Cullen retired to his tent. He undressed and tucked himself into his bedroll, but the day of slow riding hadn’t exhausted him enough for sleep to claim him immediately. He examined the fabric of the tent. He half-listened to the murmur of voices around the campfire outside. Nothing.

On nights like this, when his veins still thrummed, Cullen would normally take himself in hand: a distraction from his thoughts, and a source of quick relaxation. Even with the others right outside, he could stay quiet — but then there were his instructions. _This is mine,_ Bull had said.

Wonderful. Now he was wide awake _and_ hard. 

He was in the process of rolling to his side, the better to hide his current state, when Dorian entered the tent. “Evening, Cullen,” the mage said lightly, then began to shed his clothing without fanfare. Cullen stared very intently at the tent’s ceiling. “You’ve been awfully quiet today; anything on your mind?”

“No,” Cullen snapped, and he regretted it instantly.

“Oh, now you must tell. Is it scandalous? An overheard tryst? A modest maiden whose downcast eyes have your heart a-flutter?”

Cullen tried to imagine Bull as a “modest maiden” and suppressed a snort of amusement at the image. “Must everything be about … that sort of thing with you?”

“Of course not! But put me alone in a tent with a dashing captain, and I can hardly help my thoughts running in intriguing directions.” Cullen heard the careless thump of Dorian’s last clothes hitting the floor, then the rustling of fabric as the man laid down.

It meant nothing, Cullen knew, but in conjunction with already being undressed and aroused, the purr of Dorian’s teasing voice sent a delicious tingle across Cullen’s skin. He let out a deep, unimpressed sigh, closed his eyes, and began to recite the Canticle of Transfigurations in his head. _These truths the Maker has revealed to me._

 

…

 

Five nights from Skyhold to Halamshiral, at the brisk pace of a small, mounted group. The second morning, Cullen’s usual nightmares were interrupted by the clasp of a hand on his shoulder, and he flew awake, grabbing the _~~demon~~_ intruder’s hand and pinning it behind him.

“ _Fasta vass_ , it’s just me!” The _~~demon~~_ intruder winced visibly and tried to pull away.

Cullen blinked, and suddenly he was truly awake: crouched in a dimly lit tent, half-dressed, with Dorian on the ground before him. He let go and recoiled instantly. “Maker’s breath, I am so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Dorian said, his teeth gritted against pain. “Next time I’ll know better than to interrupt you unawares.”

“I’m sorry,” Cullen repeated. Dorian didn’t look injured, but in the tent’s dim light, it was hard to tell. “I, ah, tend to have nightmares.”

“I noticed.”

“Ah. Yes. I’m sorry. I’ve … had requests in the past to change living quarters. I can see about acquiring an extra tent in the next town, if you like.”

“Yes, because my biggest concern right now is preserving my own pristine sleep environment.” Dorian’s eye roll was practically audible. “Even wicked Tevinter magisters have some sense of empathy, you know. Does anything help?”

 _Lyrium._ “Not really. I’ve been having them for years, so they’re unlikely to go away any time soon.”

“I find that a bottle or two of sack mead often works,” Dorian said lightly.

“I’ve tried. Drinking helps me fall asleep, but it only makes the nightmares stronger by the time I wake up.”

“That’s a shame. What about a nice energetic ‘roll in the hay,’ as you Southerners put it?”

“No. Thank you.” Cullen wasn’t sure whether Dorian had been asking or offering, but it hardly mattered right now. Besides, his experience with Bull had disproven the theory, not that he was about to mention that.

“Always so polite.”

Cullen shook his head, grateful for the escape, and the moment passed.

Dorian never did change tents, nor did he try to wake Cullen again. Once or twice, though, Cullen opened his eyes to see Dorian across the tent, motionless but awake, watching him.

 

…

 

It wasn’t until they reached Halamshiral that the difficulty of Bull’s order really sank in. Josephine had arranged for accommodation at a local noble’s estate for the nights before and after the ball, since apparently preparing for a ball was an all-day affair. The Abernache estate was more than eager to provide each of the Inquisitor’s “dear friends” with their own luxurious bedchamber, so that night, Cullen sank into a disorientingly soft feather mattress and tried very, very hard not to think about how he hadn’t touched himself in almost a week.

The attempt failed miserably.

His cock was hard, of course. With each passing day, the physical urge had become more difficult to ignore, until even shifting the wrong way in the saddle could stir him up. But lying in that bedroom, perfectly comfortable and alone, he craved touch with a smothering intensity. It would be so easy to rub himself — not enough to climax, maybe, but just a little, just to reduce the pressure.

 _I promised_ , he told himself, and clenched his fists until his fingernails cut into his palms. He could hear a quiet giggle coming from outside, could feel the feather bed embracing him like a lover. It reminded him of the time that Bull had bound him with Orlesian silk scarves so he could barely twitch a muscle, and how Bull’s hands had held him down on the bed until he dissolved into sensation, a clay vase spinning beneath Bull’s touch.

His cock twitched at the memory, rubbing against the fabric of the smallclothes he’d worn to deter exactly this sort of activity, and Cullen groaned to himself. He wanted Bull, Andraste preserve him, and the desire sharpened every day into a keen edge that sliced away every defense, hesitation, or excuse keeping him from giving himself wholly into Bull’s hands.

But he would obey, he would, and that obedience provided a warm susurration of satisfaction that — if not the tidal bliss of gratification — comforted him in the gilded loneliness of Halamshiral.

 

…

 

The ball was, predictably, dreadful. The future of Thedas was at stake, yet all Cullen could do for hours was stand stiffly in a corner, waiting for the Inquisitor to ferret out secrets. Worse still, no matter how close to the wall he inched or how firmly he refused, a swarm of admirers seemed determined to work their way into his trousers.

The more polite Orlesians simply asked him to dance, a request he could comfortably deny. The _less_ polite guests tried sidling up to him and bending to retrieve an “accidentally” dropped item in a way that best revealed their physical assets, or outright grabbed him in entirely inappropriate places. (On the bright side, the cloud of perfume-scented attention was anything but arousing, despite the predicament that Bull had put him in.)

After removing someone’s hands from his trousers for the third time — with a firm yet polite grip, because Leliana would have him killed if he caused a diplomatic incident — Cullen practically wept for joy at the sound of Dorian’s voice. “Commander! There you are! I’ve an important message from the Inquisitor — do join me?”

Cullen nodded a half-gracious farewell to his admirers and followed Dorian through the crowd, out onto an empty balcony, and through an unlocked window into a disused storage room. “Is the Inquisitor all right?” Cullen asked immediately.

Dorian shrugged. “As far as I’m aware, yes; she didn’t bring me along for her trellis-climbing adventures.”

“So what message did—“

“I _lied_ , Cullen. If you blushed any harder back there, you’d have risked an aneurysm. Are you really that incapable of taking compliments?”

Cullen glared, though relief outweighed his annoyance. “Groping my arse is not a compliment.”

“Not a very politely expressed one, I’ll grant you, but can you really blame him?” Dorian smirked, and then his voice dropped into the smoky tone that seemed directly connected to Cullen’s libido. “I saw the way that man watched me lead you away, by the way. He’s thinking about us right now — wondering if I brought you somewhere quiet to stake my claim on you and replace that stick in your arse with something more pleasant.” Dorian’s lips had moved so close to Cullen’s ear that his breath sent warm puffs across his skin. “I’ll wager that if you asked him, he’d be more than willing to watch the two of us together, even if he couldn’t touch.”

Sweet Andraste, Cullen was hard. The week of denial flooded back into him at full force, leaving him breathless with arousal — Dorian surely could see how his voice was affecting him, Maker take him. Cullen gritted his teeth and stood motionless. He felt certain that if he moved at all, he’d be utterly lost. Worse still, right at that moment, he couldn’t think of a single blighted reason not to give in.

 _This is mine_ , Bull had said.

Cullen inhaled, exhaled, and controlled his tone. “You have an entire palace full of nobles who’d join you in bed if you asked. Must you do this to me?”

A flinch and a shuttering of eyes passed across Dorian’s face, both almost unnoticeable, yet enough for Cullen to feel a twinge of guilt. “No, I suppose not,” Dorian said. “Good evening, Commander.” His eyes traveled down Cullen’s body, pausing pointedly at his tented pants. “You might want to take care of that before you return to the floor.”

Only when Dorian had disappeared back into the foliage did Cullen curse, release his rigid posture, and slam his fist into the nearest plaster column. Damn the Iron Bull, and damn himself for finding the cruel certainty of denial so impossible to resist.

 

…

 

On the journey back to Skyhold, Dorian’s flirtations felt subdued to Cullen. He still made inappropriate comments when Cullen left him an opening too obvious to ignore, but otherwise, he appeared to have acquired some actual respect for Cullen’s boundaries. (That may have been a miracle as momentous as anything that happened at the ball.)

The uncharacteristic silence niggled at Cullen, but he was too grateful to push it further, and too distracted by the way that every nerve ending in his body seemed connected directly to his cock, these days. He went to sleep thinking about Bull fingering his arse to a heady inside-out climax; he woke up to a wet bedroll and the fading dream-memory of a cock heavy on his tongue. During the day, he could mostly set aside his body’s reactions to focus on the present, but at night — sweet Andraste, at night, he sometimes felt desperate to the point of keening.

But he obeyed.

They returned at last to Skyhold and a welcoming party; Leliana’s messengers had already reached the castle, and the cooks had prepared a proper Fereldan feast, with crisp-skinned suckling pigs and sheep’s head pies and gooseberry fool. Corypheus may still have been at large, but they’d thwarted his plans in Orlais, and most folks found that reason enough to celebrate.

For his part, Cullen was also grateful for the party, because the chaos of festivities gave his movements more freedom. He wrote and sealed a note to Bull, asking to meet him in Cullen’s office, then had one of his messengers deliver it. From there, he splashed off the worst of the journey’s grime with icy water, changed into clean clothing, and tried (with little success) to distract himself by reading.

Thank the Maker, he didn’t have to wait long. Bull stepped in, barred the tower’s doors with care, and turned to survey Cullen fully, a predator observing his prey. Cullen knew he looked ridiculous, his cock already tenting his trousers with anticipation. He was far, far beyond caring.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” Bull said. “I knew you’d be good for me.”

The praise poured like honey over Cullen, unctuous and expansive, and suddenly all was well again. He opened his mouth to speak, but the only word that emerged was a quiet, plaintive, “ _Please._ ”

“Oh, _kadan_ , you got yourself into quite a state.” Bull stepped forward, then closer, until his body caged Cullen against the bookshelf without quite touching him. “So, did anyone pretty catch your attention at the ball?”

 _Sultry kohl-lined eyes and hot breath against his ear._ “Ah,” Cullen stuttered, trying to forget the charged encounters. “No, not really.”

Bull raised an eyebrow. “You don’t have to lie to me, you know. I won’t be offended that you noticed someone else.” A smile with a flash of sharp teeth. “I think it’s hot.”

Cullen hadn’t even been touched yet, and he already felt like he was falling apart, torn between pent-up need and churning shame. “Please,” he said again. “Can’t you just —“

“I will, don’t worry. I promised I’d reward you. Well, to be specific, I promised that I’d wreck you, but that works out to the same thing for you, doesn’t it?” Bull touched one finger to Cullen’s lips, and he parted them immediately and began to suck. “Good boy. You’ve been so good this week. I know it must have been hard.”

Cullen couldn’t speak, but he nodded a little, and Bull rewarded him with a second thick finger, filling Cullen’s mouth to remove even the temptation of speech.

“That’s good, yeah. And don’t think I’ve forgotten about my question. Anyone who can make your blood burn like that isn’t a bad thing. But I can wait.” Bull stepped closer still, so that the bulge in his trousers brushed lightly against Cullen’s own hardness, and Cullen’s hips jerked sharply of their own volition. He sucked harder, running his tongue over the callused ridges of Bull’s fingers, thirsty beyond measure.

“You’re fucking gorgeous when you’re desperate, you know.” Bull’s gaze pinned Cullen like a butterfly. “Makes me want to see how far you would go.” He placed his other hand on Cullen’s hip, his thumb stroking circles in the groove leading down to Cullen’s cock, without ever quite reaching it. “I’ve been thinking about this evening since you left. Couldn’t decide whether to get you off right away, quick and dirty, just so I could take my time with you in the second round. But then we had an Orlesian peddler come through, and I found just the thing for you.”

Bull reached into an unseen pocket and pulled out a contraption of steel rings and leather strips, reminiscent of a horse’s bridle in miniature. “Clever little device, huh? Once I fit it around you, you can get as hard as you want, but you can’t come until I let you.” He slid his fingers out of Cullen’s mouth, smiling when Cullen craned his neck to follow them, and he pressed a hard kiss to Cullen’s lips. “I am going to tear you to _pieces_.”

Then Bull sank his teeth around a tendon in Cullen’s neck, just above the collarbone, where pale soft skin had been untouched by the sun, and everything became bright and free and yes and yes and yes.


	6. epilogue: know my heart

The next morning, Cullen woke with a voice hoarse from screaming, and not all of it could be blamed on Bull’s delicious tortures. Bull said nothing about the nightmares, as usual, though his expression was soft in the early morning light.

“I want to tell you something,” Cullen began, then stopped. Maker, but this was hard, no matter how often he’d resolved that it was necessary.

Bull raised a patient eyebrow when the silence lengthened. “If this is about your thing for Dorian, I’ve told you already that I don’t mind.”

What. “ _What?_ That wasn’t what I — I mean, I don’t — Maker’s breath. This isn’t about him at all.“

“All right, then,” Bull said, clearly relinquishing the topic but not his (absurd!) statement.

“How much do you know about lyrium and Templars?”

Bull frowned. “You mean, aside from the red lyrium that Corypheus is using to make his templars into monsters? Not a lot. The Ben-Hassrath have known for a while that anywhere with a concentration of Templars uses a lot of lyrium, but your people always kept the details well-guarded.”

“It’s distilled into a drug for us. That’s it. They give it to you after you’re initiated, like it’s the thing that makes you a true Templar — and it does help us fight magic, I won’t deny it, but Seekers like Cassandra have the same abilities without the addiction. They want us addicted; it leashes us to the Chantry more effectively than any vow or law. The longer you take it, the harder it becomes to go even a day without it, let alone the prospect of a week, a month, a lifetime.”

Cullen heard his voice break at his final word, and he saw that Bull understood immediately. “You stopped. How long ago?”

“When I left Kirkwall.”

Bull exhaled in a long, impressed whistle.

“I thought it would get better with time. Some of it has; the headaches come less often, at least.”

“Do you have a Healer supervising you, at least? I’ve seen a few people addicted to lyrium dust, and withdrawal isn’t pretty. I’m guessing the Templar shit is even worse.”

Cullen shook his head. “It’s too much of a weakness to let the knowledge get out. Cassandra and the Inquisitor are the only ones who know. Well, and you.”

“Heh.” Bull had an odd expression on his face — more introspective than Cullen could ever recall seeing.

When her didn’t speak further, Cullen prompted, “Something on your mind?”

“Nah, it’s just… the Ben-Hassrath train you for this, when they’re sending you to deal with non-Qunari. They talk about pair bonding and sex, how you can use it to fast-track a human target to a point where they’re willing to trust you with their weaknesses. And you just told me a hell of a weakness.”

Something about the tone of his voice made Cullen shiver. “Yes, I did. I wouldn’t have gotten this far with you if I didn’t trust you.”

“Fuck, _kadan_. You can’t just — Oh, come over here.” Bull had slept on his back, with Cullen on the side of his good eye, and he practically hoisted Cullen up and onto himself.

Cullen settled into place and tucked his head into Bull’s neck, nestling up like a Mabari pup. “Please don’t tell me that after all this, you’re the one having hesitations,” he murmured.

“Nah.” Bull rested one hand at the small of Cullen’s back, warm and substantial. “ _Asit tal-eb._ ”

“What’s that one mean?”

“Literally, ‘the true is that which is.’ Or ‘whatever is, will be.’ It’s hard to translate.” Bull sighed, but fondly. “Basically, you probably shouldn’t have trusted me, and I probably shouldn’t have gotten so attached to a pretty Templar, but here we are. You’re mine, and I don’t intend on letting you go.”

Cullen smiled into Bull’s skin. “Well, I suppose I’m all right with that.”

The morning sun, pale as new straw, cast a patchwork quilt of light across Cullen’s bed. He wriggled contentedly in its glow. Bull stroked downward and dug his thumb into a bruise on Cullen’s arse, pressing until Cullen gasped at the blissful burst of pain; all was warm in the cocoon of Bull’s arms, and all would be well.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) **Trigger warnings:** There is LOTS of consensual kink in this fic — please check the tags for a list of the major ones. The only non-consensual element is a non-detailed memory of Cullen’s experience at the Circle Tower with a desire demon. If you would like more detailed content warnings, or if you think I should warn for anything I haven’t listed, please be in touch.
> 
> 2) After she beta-read ["Judge Me Whole,"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3474146) [growflet](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Growflet) commented about how it was interesting to see Cullen as Bull’s _kadan_. This fic was written to show how that came to be. (… It just happened to be several times as long as its inspiration.) I also owe her infinite gratitude for helping with every step of this fic — cheerleading, betaing, character-wrangling, and more. Thanks also to [pearwaldorf](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pearwaldorf) for looking this over and providing general encouragement and enabling along the way.
> 
> 3) I took some liberties with the exact timelines of some of the romances and plot threads. I also took generous liberties with Qunlat, but hey, linguistic speculation is fun.
> 
> 4) Iron Bull has a line where he says, "If I get possessed, feint on my blind side, then low. Cullen says I leave myself open." I couldn’t stop laughing, because I already had Cullen use that exact move in my fic. In general, though, if you recognize something, it’s probably a line taken directly from the game; there are several.
> 
> 5) Rather than reinvent the wheel, I used [this post on travel in Thedas](http://angrytaiga.tumblr.com/post/107579273354/stonelions-this-is-one-of-those-pedantic-things) as a rough resource for travel times; it seems roughly on par with [this post](http://daydreamsonacloudyday.tumblr.com/post/116674086393/da-i-travel-times). However, I shaved off a little time from the estimates, based on the theory that magical aids (especially the levels of magic that the Inquisition had access to) would allow for various small increases in travel speed.
> 
> 6) Do say hi on [Tumblr](http://twitter.com/eponis) or [Twitter](http://eponis.tumblr.com)! I’d love to know more Dragon Age people.


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